


A Simple Life

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder tries to move on with his life but Sylar isn't done with him yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Simple Life

_“So it goes.”_   
**-Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut **

 

Mohinder rarely has time to himself.

More often than not the hours that make up his day are spoken for, filled up with research and teaching; a far cry and welcome reprieve from the ‘cab driver by day, scientist by night’ role that first ruled his life in America.

The research he currently does, mostly during off hours, is an extension of what he started years before (which in itself was a continuation of his father’s life calling). He is making strides in not only pinpointing the evolved anomaly that makes some people capable of extraordinary things (from mind reading to flying, technological manipulation to self-healing), but aiding in helping those people learn to control the use of said abilities for specific results—certainly helping the Special community grow and thrive, even if it is still mostly underground.

A normal life filled with incredible possibilities; that’s what he is able to give them, and himself.

There came a point when the danger of secretive organizations declaring life or death bounties on the very people Mohinder ideally wanted to be of service to was too much. It had actually worked to his advantage that so many in positions of power had written him off as ‘used up,’ so-to-speak, when they felt his work had gone as far as it could and others were better qualified to continue.

Being underestimated is something that Mohinder is used to. Few raised an eyebrow when he discovered a serum to reverse the ability of super-strength that he had once experimentally given himself. Even now it brings a smile to his face (while he simultaneously rolls his eyes) just knowing that the few who noticed regarded it as a fluke. In fact, it was an exact science.

But it was also the perfect out. With his research perceived to be at a standstill and then a loss of his power (and thus incentive) Mohinder felt a freedom he hadn’t in a long time—to do the work he loved on his own terms. Thankfully he wasn’t alone. Peter helped him out with some contacts at the university, and with his own previous teaching history in Chennai (as well as his briefly documented position with the Petrelli political machine) he was able to secure a teaching job.

He had forgotten how much he missed the thrill of good debates over theories and ethics. An old calling made new again, for the first time in a long while Mohinder felt at ease. But he wasn’t so foolish as to believe everything was suddenly perfectly fine.

He still doesn’t trust that Molly’s safety can be guaranteed if he makes her whereabouts public record, Bennet is suspiciously M.I.A (no surprise really with Sandra taking Lyle, finally saying, “enough is enough,” and Claire refusing to see him), and Matt is overly paranoid about his son’s manifesting ability. Even Peter, the truest thing to a best friend Mohinder has ever had, is a man trying to live a normal life while dealing with the epic scale consequences of his mother, Angela’s, actions.

Danger lurks at every corner and complacency is a spell under which not to fall. As content as Mohinder may see himself to be there is an undercurrent of anxiety that tenses his shoulders first thing in the morning, that has him looking over his shoulder a half second longer when he is going grocery shopping and has him triple checking the locks of his apartment at night. He doesn’t talk about it; least of all admit it out loud. He wants to believe in ‘happily ever after’ for as long as delusionally possible.

And so on the occasions when Mohinder gets a few hours on his own to do whatever he wants he fights the lazy urge to lie in bed and instead walks to the bookstore where he immerses himself in the walls of novels (specifically fiction since most of his life is dealing with the factual) that crowd around him like a familiar blanket. Walking past the shelves he does not seek out a specific book. Rather he tips out ones that catch his eye, reads the back and first page before deciding whether to take it with him over to a private corner or continue.

Whoever says you can’t judge a book by its over only knows half the story.

He is contemplating taking The Drifters over to an empty seat he spotted earlier in a far corner of the store (nearly cut off from everything else) but he is mindfully distracted by a particular employee who keeps hovering nearby, almost overly helpful (and thereby incredibly irritating). To Mohinder he looks like a university student on the first week of a job—a bit too keen. It should be amusing but every time Mohinder senses him near, his skin erupts in goosebumps and the hair on the back of his neck rises.

After ten minutes spent trying to avoid him, Mohinder cups the book with his left hand and make his way through the stacks, heading further into the back.

“Looks like you finally decided to read that.”

The words are barely out of the young man’s mouth when Mohinder has him shoved up against one of the stacks with the spine of The Drifters pressed hard against his throat, cutting off his air supply. The employee gasps in surprise, but Mohinder’s gaze remains unflinching and he ignores the flush of red that tinges the skin of the struggling man. He shoves the book harder (remembering there was a time when that move would have resulted in crushing the windpipe directly), his jaw tensed and eyes narrowed.

Suddenly the employee relaxes and a smirk twitches up the corner of his mouth. The next thing Mohinder knows he is flying backwards and slammed into the opposing stack with a painful groan. His knees buckle but he keeps from collapsing, a fact made easier by the distraction of seeing the employee holding up his right hand, palm forward.

“Still can’t quite keep your hands off of me,” the man says slyly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He takes a step forward and the outline of his body (including, interestingly enough, his clothing) shakes and contorts until the person standing in front of Mohinder is a far too familiar face.

Mohinder, jaw hung open, eyes in wide surprise and heart racing, drops the book in his hand to the floor, but before it hits it is telekinetically pulled through the air into the other person’s hand; who then takes a moment to study the cover.

“The best way to change society is to replace it one man at a time.” The book is quoted and a raised eyebrow is directed at Mohinder. “Chicken Little was right.”

Mohinder stands up straight. “I have to say I expected more from you than stalking me in a bookstore.”

“You know I can’t stay away from you for too long,” Sylar muses condescendingly while telekinetically guiding the book to lie on one of the shelves. “You might forget me and we can’t have that.”

Mohinder thinks that forgetting Sylar is an impossibility, but he will be damned if he tells him that. Sylar would be far too flattered; a sign of their disturbing connection, and the frightening truth is he wouldn’t be far off.

“More like you need something from me,” Mohinder says, very careful of his words.

“Want,” Sylar clarifies.

“_Need_,” Mohinder challenges, striking at the extra vulnerability that comes bound to the word.

Sylar tenses, albeit briefly, narrowing his eyes into a glint. Then his know-it-all smile is back in place. “I see we haven’t lost the belief that we’re of the utmost importance to the other person,” he says, using ‘we’ like they are some odd package deal. He releases the invisible hold.

Mohinder stumbles forward but rights himself quickly, instinctively fixing his mussed clothes. “You tell me.” He glances up at Sylar. “You’re the one who has come to find me—_once again_.”

There has always been an element to their relationship (and, yes, Mohinder has finally come to around to acknowledging they have one after Peter kept pointing out it was far more than two people intent on pissing each other off) that affords power, or the balance of it, to Mohinder. Without an ability to heighten his worth, he cannot say with certainty if Sylar is impressed or angered by it. The truth of the matter is that Sylar, as powerful as he is, has sought out Mohinder a number of times, for reasons that run the gamut from sheer manipulation to worried desperation to a misguided holdover of friendship.

Mohinder doesn’t like to fill in the blanks or admit that he likes being held to that level of significance by someone of Sylar’s prowess, by the very person he once had a high regard for.

The last time Sylar cornered him was some time after the truth came out about what Angela and Bennet had Matt do to him—wiping clean his mind and making him believe he was Nathan Petrelli. It was a horrific ruse and Mohinder was not afraid to hurl the accusation at them that it was assault, plain and simple, and a betrayal of incalculable proportions. Sylar’s anger was massive. He disappeared for a bit (while the Petrelli and Bennet ranks imploded) until one night he caught Mohinder alone on a near empty subway car. Forcibly he made Mohinder get off at his stop and walked him into their familiar stomping ground—the apartment—with not a word said between them.

The panic that coursed through Mohinder spiked once they were locked indoors. Harsh accusations were thrown back and forth. And cuts and bruises (some that healed while others stuck around for weeks) spoke of the deeper psychological warfare they were becoming casualties of. In the end Mohinder found he was thankful for one power Sylar had taken—the lie detector.

The look of confusion and surprise on Sylar’s face when he realized Mohinder really hadn’t known about Angela and Bennet’s plan was something Mohinder couldn’t explain. Of more importance he dared to think there was a hint of relief in Sylar’s expression. With the fight gone out of them (and Mohinder bleeding on the floor), Sylar had mindlessly helped him up (going so far as to extend a hand, which Mohinder refused, prompting Sylar to ignore the refusal and he bend down, gripping Mohinder’s left bicep and yanking him to his feet) before quietly walking out the door.

Then it was as if he had gone underground and although Mohinder was worried, Peter seemed clear that Sylar was focusing on those he deemed responsible. Being out the direct line of fire gave Mohinder a false sense of safety, but then life went on and it was easier to accept whatever semblance of security he could get.

Maybe this visit is the chiding wake up call.

Sylar takes a small step forward and points at him. “Now that’s something I’ve missed. Even when you’re at a distinct disadvantage you’re all talk.”

Mohinder curls his hands into fists at his side and rolls his eyes. “As usual, when you should be menacing me with your prowess you’re too busy being enamoured with yourself to notice _I’m not shaking_.”

“And I’m just getting started.” Sylar directs a continuous electric spark from his hands to rapidly hit off of Mohinder’s skin, producing the same irritation (though with a bit more bite) as an incessant insect.

Mohinder knows it’s useless but he swipes at the sparks, trying to hold off the assault, and the strange battle continues until their eyes briefly meet and Sylar dramatically drops the attack.

“Relax,” Sylar says with a small chuckle and, taking another step closer, drags his left hand across Mohinder’s right shoulder under the pretense of smoothing out the material. “If I wanted to make an example out of you the lesson would be clear.”

Mohinder bristles under Sylar’s touch. “And you expect me to believe that this visit is absolutely random?”

With an unblinking gaze Sylar drops his hand and angles his head forward in an inquisitive manner. “Let’s not waste our breaths on absolutes, at least not right now.”

He steps back, eyes still on Mohinder, then turns around while placing his hands in his pockets. Mohinder watches him walk towards the end of the stacks to look out at the store and ensure their privacy. Mohinder pushes up on his toes to peer over Sylar’s shoulder with a mix of dejection and piqued curiosity at realizing they are pretty much to themselves in the back corner. He flattens his feet when Sylar turns around, nervously hooking his thumbs in his pockets then dropping his hands to his side.

In a few seconds Sylar’s jovial edge is gone, replaced by a severity that makes Mohinder subconsciously lean forward, his mouth half open with the right words nowhere to be found. Sylar walks over to him, stopping a foot away.

“Angela Petrelli has enlisted some friends to help her _disappear_,” Sylar shares quietly, sternly. “It’s an unacceptable turn of events, and if you know where she is…”

Mohinder swallows, his mind spinning with the fact that Sylar is still systematically focused on righteous vengeance and that it has led Sylar back to him, and he has no answer to give.

Narrowing his eyes with trepidation and defiance, Mohinder replies, “I don’t know.”

Sylar pauses and leans forward, using his height advantage to stare down at him. “Think before you speak. Where is she?” he says coldly.

“If I knew—,”

“You’d tell me?” Sylar scoffs with a distant edge to his voice.

It is a question Mohinder should have expected but having it posted so decisively rankles his nerves. His mouth hangs parted, a flurry of words jumping over each other on his tongue, until he presses his lips together. He is uneasy under Sylar’s penetrating gaze, a matter not helping the confused reality of the answer that hangs unspoken. It should be an obvious response but the truth never is; and Sylar _will_ know better.

“I don’t know,” Mohinder admits firmly, feeling at once like a failure for even considering the leeway and sure that Sylar is no longer the worst of his problems.

In turn Sylar pulls back a few inches and regards Mohinder very carefully. His eyes skirt side-to-side as if he is searching Mohinder’s, trying to burrow beneath the surface.

“You say that and I almost believe you,” Sylar comments flatly, but with enough of a lilt to his tone that Mohinder is sure the lie detector has given him a pass for honesty, as cryptic as it is.

Mohinder takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “I wish I could say that all revenge is wrong, but we know how that argument goes. I won’t condone unmeasured payback,” he says. “Yet I can’t abide by what Angela did with Bennet and Matt’s help.”

“What they did…” Sylar trails off though his tone is commanding. “They have to learn that there are consequences.”

As he begins to step back, Mohinder reaches out and grabs his arm, prompting a surprised reaction from Sylar.

“Then you expect and accept Claire paying you a visit one day?” Mohinder insists and when Sylar narrows his eyes he continues, “After all, I seem to recall you taking an uninvited trip into her head as well.”

Sylar’s arms suddenly feel hot through his sleeve.

“Your morality is askew.” Mohinder snatches his arm away and turns it over, stretching and unbending the fingers as it goes from red back to normal.

“The same could be said for yours.” Sylar smirks. “This insistence of yours that it’s all black and white is either charming or completely naïve.”

“At least I try to live up to a standard,” Mohinder snaps. “You’ve done countless things that are too terrible to even imagine and yet now you’re claiming a line has been crossed and demand retribution?”

“Careful, that sounds like you’re saying I deserve what they did to me. Now who has questionable morals?” Sylar steps closer and peers down at him.

“I’m not saying you deserved it, I’m saying you can’t apply different rules to different people.” Mohinder returns his unblinking gaze.

“Why not? People do it all the time,” Sylar states matter-of-factly.

“Wonderful.” Mohinder’s expression is impassive. “By that account we should all do what we please and take up arms when others do something different. We can all devolve into chaos.”

“Save the dramatics,” Sylar counters emphatically furrowing his brow. “_Organized_ chaos has a method to it.”

Taking a few steps backwards, he leans his back against the bookcase and folds his arms across his chest, angling his head forward and staring up from under thick eyebrows. “And I’m nothing if not methodical.”

Mohinder ignores the pang of panic that knots his stomach and scoffs. Pushing his hands in his pant pockets he works to ease the tension in his shoulders. In contrast to Sylar he tilts his head back to convey an air of superiority while looking down his nose.

“Knowing your every cruel act was deliberate is hardly the impressive point you think it is.”

“Really?” Sylar’s disbelief is all the more obvious in the eyebrow he quirks.

“I may have had my own transgressions, but I was hardly proud of myself,” Mohinder says.

“That’s because you’re a slave to your guilt,” Sylar tones flatly.

“You mean I have a conscience.”

“I mean,” he says as he stands tall, “your conscience gets in the way of your conviction. Not all people are created equal. When are you finally going to get that?”

Mohinder grinds his teeth and sticks his ground while Sylar fixes him in another unwavering staredown.

“There are people who will use what they can to get ahead,” Sylar says.

“Like you,” Mohinder deadpans.

After the quickest flash of irritation in Sylar’s eyes he replies, “Like me. Like Angela. Like Bennet. Are you willing to look the other way for what they’ve done?”

“I won’t sign their death warrants.” Mohinder is defiant, jutting his face forward.

“I’m not asking you to,” Sylar counters by putting his face right back in Mohinder’s.

Mohinder huffs incredulously and begins to turn away, seemingly encouraging Sylar to insistently—near pleadingly—follow up with, “Despite what you may think I do have other ways of getting what I want.”

“Without murder being an option?” Mohinder demands looking back at him.

Sylar leans closer. “I think I’ve proven myself to be more than a one-trick pony.”

“Have you?”

Sylar pulls his head back and contemplates Mohinder, a gesture that makes Mohinder uneasy. It is too familiar, as if Sylar can see the way the wheels in his mind are working in contrast to the face he puts forward.

Sylar gives him a half smile and suggestively says, “Part of what keeps you _intrigued_ is not knowing what I’m going to do next.”

Mohinder bites the inside of his cheek to divert his attention away from Sylar’s apt assessment. It has been a bothersome truth that Mohinder doesn’t dwell on, but Sylar’s permanence in his life (whether right at the center or looming on the edges) makes it difficult to avoid. As much as Sylar and what he has proven himself capable of worries and puts Mohinder on edge (forcing him to be quick on his feet and keep his brain in first gear), Sylar is also a person of endless fascination.

Knowing more of the bits and pieces that make up his past better than anyone else (unless the dead count), Mohinder at times feels like he is at once the keeper of a very deep secret and in a perpetual state of wanting to know more. There is much Mohinder could share with the others that would knock kinks in Sylar’s armor, but he doesn’t. There have been no threatening orders to keep his mouth shut, yet an understanding extends unspoken between them.

The bottom line is that there are some stories that only exist to be told between two people. Others knowing them would do nothing to contain Sylar, rather they would be petty offerings reaping more trouble than the sly condescension of them as belittling weapons are worth.

Beyond that, it is no one’s business. Mohinder has his own stories locked deep inside that Sylar has been privy to long before the two of them crossed paths. Difficult as those are, with the ability to put cracks in Mohinder’s resolve, Sylar has only used them one-on-one and in particularly combative retaliatory confrontations.

They have both made choices governed by divergent reasons but at the core is something undefined that binds them through it all, from the beginning of what they now know as life to the presumable end.

“And am I so predictable?” Mohinder finally poses the question, steadily avoiding Sylar’s innuendo.

“A bit,” Sylar mocks, holding up his right hand and indicating a small space between his thumb and index finger. “But you have your moments.”

It is what passes as a high compliment form him and Mohinder finds it bit easier to breathe easier. “What exactly do you want from me?” he asks after a thoughtful beat.

Sylar hesitates a second. “The girl.”

Immediately Mohinder’s defenses go back up. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not going to kill her,” Sylar argues.

“I can guarantee that since you’ll get nowhere near her.” Mohinder is unwavering.

“All she needs to do is tell me where Angela is holed up.”

“No! Do you not grasp what you’re asking? You want Molly to help the man who murdered her parents.”

“She doesn’t have to know it’s me asking. She’ll tell you.”

Which is true, but the thought of hiding such pertinent information from the young girl (who, despite doing better, is still traumatized by what she had been subjected to at Sylar’s hands a few times—from her parents murders to being held hostage alongside Mohinder) does not sit will with him. She has had to mature wiser than her years and Mohinder would not be surprised if Molly recognized the strange way he and Sylar move around each other.

Mohinder is fairly certain Sylar would no longer hurt Molly, not given what she means to Mohinder, but that in no way means he wants to treat her experience with Sylar as it if were a no more than a misunderstanding.

Mohinder turns his back to Sylar and runs his fingers roughly through his hair, his frustration evident.

“Don’t force my hand, Mohinder,” Sylar says reverently.

Mohinder stops and glares over his shoulder. “No one forces you to do anything so don’t even thinking of putting this on me.”

Sylar turns on the spot and takes a few heavy steps away then turns around again. Mohinder can see the anger seething below the surface in the strong lines that define his clenched jaw and his darkly hooded eyes. “This is no simple request.”

As usual a flood of meaning accompanies what sounds straightforward. Firstly, it is not a request. It is Sylar’s ingrained politeness that comes out at different times, even mockingly so. With Mohinder it connotes a vague hint of respect. It is also a warning for what may follow. Sylar will not lose control, it is not in his repertoire; but he _will_ lash out with intent if he sees it as the only option.

“No.” Mohinder chances. “I won’t be the go-between for you and her. I won’t let you use her again.”

One of the things Mohinder appreciates is that the confrontation is happening in a public place, forcing Sylar to reconsider his actions. In private Mohinder may already be stuck to the ceiling.

Sylar stares at him with an unreadable expression, then suddenly asks, “Has Peter met her?”

Mohinder wrinkles his brow in unexpected confusion. “What?”

“Has Peter met her?” Sylar draws out the question slowly.

Realization dawns on Mohinder and he asks, “What are you—why?”

Sylar grins like the answer gives him what he wants. Angling his head forward, close to Mohinder, he says, “Working a loophole,” with a gleam in his eye.

“You won’t hurt him?” Mohinder asks the question as if it is an order.

“That doesn’t show much belief in _Pete_, does it?” Sylar draws his lips into a tight smile. “How would he feel to hear you think he is so _weak_?”

“He’s far from weak,” Mohinder’s reply is firm. “He’s a better man than you’ll ever be.”

Sylar does not flinch. “No doubt.” Lowering his voice he adds, “But I’m the one you can’t get out of your mind.”

Before Mohinder can retort Sylar steps back and rolls his eyes. “Peter has one free pass this time around.”

Mohinder guesses it has to do with Peter not knowing what Angela had ordered done to Sylar. Temporary relief rushes over him.

“But it won’t be a habit,” Sylar promises and turns around. As he walks away he calls out, “See you around.”

Mohinder knows trying to stop Sylar is useless, but as he watches him go he pulls out his cellphone to warn Peter about his impending visitor. As the phone rings, Mohinder sighs, feeling the pain of his anxiety pounding his heart hard. He already knew it but the visit has emphasized how much his life has changed. Any hint of normalcy is short-lived and single-handedly crushed out of being.

He moves forward a few steps and watches Sylar’s form disappear out the front door at the same time he hears the other line pick up. This is not the life he asked for but it is the one he got.

And he intends to live it.


End file.
